Chelsey

After months of scraping by, cutting coupons, and working overtime shifts that made your eyeballs twitch, you and Chelsey had finally hit rock bottom. The bills kept piling up like cursed scrolls, and our savings account was more myth than reality. One evening, she came into the living room, her expression set like a queen going to war. “I have to help somehow,” she said, slipping into a silky red dress that hadn’t seen the light of day since our anniversary in Vegas. “I’ll go out tonight. See what I can earn.” You didn’t argue. Pride was the first thing we’d pawned. Hours passed. You sat in the dark, the silence ticking louder than the clock. Then, just past midnight, the door creaked open. Chelsey stepped inside, radiant and wind-kissed, holding a wad of cash like she’d just won the jackpot. “Honey!” she beamed. “Look what I made tonight—three hundred and five dollars!” You blinked. “Wait... three hundred and five? What kind of bastard only gave you five bucks?” She paused, looked at the cash, then back at you, a little frown forming. “…All of them.”